


Run Time Error

by cyren2132



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Gen, Greer does something nice, civilians and military, fitness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:42:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyren2132/pseuds/cyren2132
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sgt. Greer notices something while leading the scientists on a run through Destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Time Error

**Author's Note:**

> A trimmed down version of this story won the first round of the Stargate Last Author Standing challenge on Livejournal in 2010. The prompt was "Routine."

Greer ran through the ship at a steady pace, listening to his heart pound in his ears and his feet on the metal flooring. They'd been two months trapped on Destiny and PT was the only time he felt really normal. While he would often crave the excitement provided by the military -- particularly with Stargate program -- it was the routine of it all that kept him sane. Especially now, when everything was so different.

Col. Young had ordered military personnel to lead the civilians -- scientists mostly -- in regular physical activity. "Keep them sharp," Young had said. "We are galaxies from home with no idea what's here. We ALL need to be ready for anything."

They all had grumbled when the colonel made the announcement, but privately, Greer was looking forward to it. Until it started. Then he realized the regimen wasn't so much about keeping the civilians sharp as it was trying to find even a hint of an edge capable of being sharpened buried somewhere amid decades spent in libraries and laboratories. And of course, a whole lot of them clung to their bluntness with a ferocity that could have been useful if they weren't all so far up in their own heads.

Civilians.

Greer pushed the thought from his mind and kept going. As he rounded a corner on what they had designated the east side of the ship he saw a person at the other end of the corridor, hunched down on the floor, their back against a wall.

“Oh, what the hell is this?” he thought to himself. He’d seen such displays before, from people so completely overwhelmed by the situation on Destiny that they just shut down, sinking to the ground wherever they stood, lost in their own little fit of sadness.

Greer was not known for his patience with those people. He set his jaw and moved forward, but as he drew closer he could see his target wasn’t just moping in the hallway.

He had been right about it being a scientist though. Brantley something-or-other -- or maybe something-or-other Brantley -- was one of the few nonmilitary personnel Greer had managed to dredge up the tiniest bit of respect for.

He was about 40, doughy and bespectacled. And when it came time time for Greer to wrangle a group together for a daily run, Brantley was always one of the first ones to show up. He never said anything, he just stood there, trying not to be noticed.

When they started running, he’d be at the front of the pack, right their with Greer. But it never lasted long. Soon he’d start to fall back until he was pulling up the rear, his heavy footfalls landing out of time with everyone else.

It was the second week of training that Greer had really noticed Brantley. In the first week it became readily apparent that quite a few people would begin runs with the rest of the group and stop midway through, wandering off to do other things. That was when Col. Young started requiring a head count at the beginning and end of each run.

When that started, Greer thought Brantley had been one of the deserters. He had stood at the end of what passed for a running course and checked off the people who had kept pace. A few minutes later stragglers would jog by at varying intervals and speeds. Then a few brisk walkers, and then the malcontents came strolling in talking with one another before blithely tossing dirty looks and claims of fascism in Greer’s direction.

And later, just as Greer would be about to give up and go looking for the group that couldn’t be bothered, he’d hear the uneven stride heading his direction and feel the metal grate beneath his feet shake with every other step.

About a minute after that Brantley would turn up around the corner, drenched with sweat and limping, his breaths coming in great rasps. That first day he caught Greer’s eye and quickly looked away. But what surprised Greer on that day and every day after was that he kept his head high as he hobbled past and out of sight.

Greer had harassed Eli into setting a Kino up along the route, and the next week he reviewed the footage, and watched with his own eyes as Brantley had fallen behind, eventually reaching the malcontents who laughed and mocked him as he struggled to keep the form of a jogger despite not even keeping the pace of a slow walker.

And it was like that for every session.

Brantley looked up as Greer approached. “Sergeant,” he said as he moved, stiffly, to stand up. He winced once, and Greer waved a hand, signaling him to stay as he was. Greer crouched next to him and looked him in the eye.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I was out for a run.”

“Really,” Greer said, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “You were out for a run?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Brantley said. “I was.”

Greer could tell he was quickly losing control of the conversation, and if there was one thing he hated it was losing. Anything. “Okay,” he said. He shifted positions, so he was now sitting next to the other man. “Why? And...” he trailed off, indicating with his hands that sitting on the floor in an empty corridor wasn’t exactly the perfect example of a workout.

“I got a cramp,” Brantley anwered, his tone hard. “As for why, you might have noticed I’m fairly useless here.”

“Uh...okay,” Greer said. He got the distinct impression he had just gotten himself tangled in headspace he wanted no part of. And yet, for some reason he kept talking. “I’m sure there are plenty of science...things...for you to do. Talk to Rush.”

“I study mold.” Brantley said. “And not even space mold, just regular, run of the mill Earth mold. All of this -- Destiny, stargates, the ninth chevron, it’s not what I do! I’m a tag-along to see if the planet had any affect on -- “ Brantley stopped abruptly. “You know what, never mind. Just never mind.” He got his feet under him and moved to stand, before falling back to the ground gracelessly and grimacing.

Greer huffed, resisted the urge to roll his eyes and switched position. He grabbed the leg Brantley was rubbing furiously and straightened it. Brantley hissed. Greer put his hands on Brantley’s foot, pointing his toes up and then down.

“Augh!” Brantley yelled. “WHat the hell are you doing?!”

“You gotta stretch the muscle,” Greer said. “Only way to make it stop hurting.”

“Well in the meantime it hurts like hell,” Brantley spat, writhing against the wall.

Greer leaned back on his heels and watched Brantley. “Feeling better?” he asked a  
moment later.

“Marginally.”

“Good.” Greer rose to his feet and hauled Brantley up with him. Brantley opened his mouth to protest, but Greer stopped him. “Step two,” he said. “Walk it off.”

Leaning heavily with one arm around Greer’s shoulders Brantley limped along in near silence. “Why are you doing this?” he finally demanded. Greer looked almost thoughtful for a moment before answering truthfully.

“I don’t know. Why are you?”

“I already told you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Greer replied. “Do you know how many people on this ship would be perfectly happy to go along doing as little humanly possible? And they’re probably a hell of a lot more useful than you. No offense.”

Brantley glared at him from the corner of his eye for a few paces before responding.

“If you can’t be useful,” he said quietly, “the least you can do is be less of a burden.” His words hung in the air until he stopped in front of a door. “This is my room,” he said. He pulled away from Greer and opened the door. “Thank you for the help, Sergeant.”

Greer nodded and turned away before looking back at Brantley, standing alone in his doorway, still leaning just a little on the frame.

“You’re thinking too much,” Greer said. “When you run.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Greer stepped closer. “You’re thinking too much. Worrying too much about what you can do and how long it’ll take. It freaks you out and jacks with your stride and breathing. It’s why your shins start hurting so fast and why you cramp up later.”

“What do I do about it?”

“Stop worrying,” Greer said as he slapped Brantley’s shoulder and continued on his run.

“That’s easy for you to say!” Brantley called out behind him. Greer grinned and kept moving, not looking back.

The next day Greer cornered Lt. Scott and told him about Brantley, convincing him to double up on the training sessions, mixing their two groups together.

“Why do you care about this guy so much?” Scott had asked.

“I don’t.”

Scott stared at him incredulously before a smile spread across his face. “Well, look at you,” he said. “Who would have thought Sgt. Ronald Greer had a soft spot hidden under all that broodiness.” Greer glared, but it was mostly for show, and they both knew it.

The next week Greer and Scott began leading their teams through a run of the ship and Brantley started at the front of the line with them, as usual. Unusual, however, was what happened near the quarter-mile mark. Brantley fell back and Greer fell back with him. Brantley was passed by a second group of people, and Greer was, too.

Brantley slowed to a walk and Greer walked with him. They finished well after everyone else, but they did finish -- together and relatively painlessly.

Brantley had disturbed Greer’s routine. But for once, Greer discovered, he didn’t mind.


End file.
